


Things You Do Not Understand

by LadySlytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Meta, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 03:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20333278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: There are things you do not understand. Things that broke you. Lies you were told that you swallowed down as easy as anything, which broke you more when you realized they were lies. Poison you were fed, a little at a time, by the whole damned world, until all you could do was spit it back. At anyone. Ateveryone.orA defense of Severus Snape.





	Things You Do Not Understand

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the sort of thing I usually write. This is one part headcanon, one part meta, and three parts character study. It is an analysis of canon events and the presumed thoughts and feelings behind them.
> 
> It's also the first thing I've ever posted in 2nd Person POV as I don't typically _like_ 2nd Person. But it was necessary for the piece to work, so there you have it.
> 
> So do me a favor, yes? Place yourself in Severus Snape's shoes. Look at the world through his eyes. Just for a few minutes, following along as I guide you down the path he took.
> 
> You're welcome to leave me comments and even to discuss this piece with me, but bashing or hate directed at Severus will not be tolerated.
> 
> ~ Sly

Imagine you're a child whose father is a raging alcoholic. Imagine you're beaten; that your mother is beaten; that you're both screamed at and insulted and battered down, every time daddy has one sip too many. And let's be honest, that's basically every night.

Now imagine your mother pulling you into her lap and whispering to you about magic, and a castle, and spells. About how your blood is pure and your bloodline noble and your family respected and powerful. She tells you that once you go to Hogwarts - to the beautiful castle full of magic and wonder - your life will be wonderful. You'll never be bullied or looked down on or hurt again, because you are _magic _and it’s going to be perfect. That is your hope; your lifeline. When you make a friend who's got magic like you, you tell them stories about it - about the castle you'll both live in and how your lives will be amazing and how magic is going to fix everything, because that's what your mom has promised you for your whole life.

And you finally go to the castle, and you're so excited, and your just _brimming _with hope and joy, and it's going to be amazing, you just _know _it. But some kid, some kid and his new friend - who you don't know and who you never did a thing to - decide you're worthless. You're beneath them. You're _nothing_, just like your father always said. And you get Sorted, and you're pulled away from the only friend you've ever had, and everyone is whispering how you're in the "worst" House - though your mom was in that House too, your whole family was, and isn't it supposed to be a _good _thing? You just don't understand. Nothing is how she said it would be. You study hard, and get good grades, and you try to keep your head down but somehow those two boys from the train are always there, calling you names and tripping you up and hexing you, and there's two more with them now and how is it that these _jerks _have friends and you're the odd-one out? Didn't your mother promise it would be different here? Didn't she swear you'd fit in, and be happy, because you'd be with others who had magic? And you're _good _at magic. You're _great _at it, even. You're in a special club your Head of House made, and he thinks you've got promise, and some of the older boys in your House think the same, and they're praising you. And every summer you're stuck back in that horrible house with your father, and every school year you're pulled a little further apart from your best friend - your _only_ friend - and the older boys are tugging you into their ranks, showing you magic you never dreamed was possible, and promising you all sorts of impossible, wonderful, terrible things...

And those other boys - the two from that first day and the two they've collected since - are still always there, in the background, taunting you and tormenting you. And you try to combat it as best you can, but it's awful and horrid and the leader likes your best friend, everyone knows it, but _you _like your best friend and they were yours first, and how is any of this fair? It's not, and it's not what you were promised - what you've spent your whole life hoping for - and the older boys in your House are whispering in your ear now, things you don't want to hear, things you don't want to put your faith in, but they're _so_ tempting...

Because yes, you want power. And yes, you want money. And yes, you want to never go back to that horrible house where you and your mother have been trapped and tormented and miserable for _so_ long. You want people to respect you. To listen to you. To look up to you. You want to make sure no one ever calls you a horrible name, ever again. You want to make sure no one ever sneers at you, or looks down their nose at you. You're _so _tired of being the butt of everyone's jokes; _so_ sick of being the punchline or, worse, the punching bag. You just want it to_ stop._

And there's a catch, of course, for this power they're promised - a vow of fealty they're taking to a man who's growing stronger every day, who's going to purge the world of filth like your father, who hated you and your mother because you were different; because you were special, because you were _magic._ He's going to make sure no one ever hurts a child like you again, and that can't be a bad thing, can it? It can't be wrong if it means no other child will ever curl up under a table, sobbing and shaking, hands pressed over their ears to drown out the sound of their mother sobbing while their father screams and takes his drunken rage out on someone too fragile to fight back and too weak - for whatever reason - to use the power inside her to protect herself or her child. Isn't it _worth_ it? But you're hesitant, because your best friend comes from Muggles as well and you love your best friend and you wouldn't want anyone to do anything to hurt your best friend. So you're torn in half, between the promises you're being made and the things you're being offered that you've wanted your whole life, so badly you can practically _taste_ it, and the person you've loved since you were too little to understand what that even meant, and it's horrible and you don't know what to do or what to choose and it's still. Not. Fair.

And then, one day, when you're still practically a child - for all that you'd like to think of yourself as grown at sixteen - it goes a step too far. You're in the air, upside down, your underwear on display for everyone to see. And there's laughing, and sneering, and the whole world seems to be staring at you, and you _hate._ In that moment, seeing everything through the red haze of the blood rushing to your head and with the sound of laughter - cruel and vicious - filling your ears over the pounding of your miserable, furious heart, you _hate_. You hate everything and everyone who's ever made you feel like nothing, even for an instant. You hate the dingy state of your underwear, on display for everyone to see just how poor you are; to mock your low station in life. You hate the powerless way you feel, unable to get yourself down or hurt the person who's hurting you - who won't _stop_ hurting you, even though you never did anything to them except be friends with your best friend, and dammit, they were _your_ friend first, and weren't you entitled to that? To one good thing in your life? Weren't you allowed _one_ friend? But no, because this boy decided you were nothing; you were _less_ than nothing, and you don't deserve _anything,_ least of all _peace_, and you will _never_ be left alone; you will _never_ be respected; you will _never_ be liked. And while you're there, in that moment, hating everyone, your best friend comes up and tries to help; tries to protect you. But right then, right there, you hate them too because they're the thing this boy wants; they're the shiny prize you aren't allowed to claim - or even get too close to - without someone deciding you have to be punished for coveting things they've decided you have no right to. So you lash out - spout the word you've heard the older boys say a thousand times, but never used yourself because you can't bear anything that might tarnish the one you love. Not even this simple word, because it’s so steeped in loathing it tastes vile on your tongue. And you're so angry, so upset, in so much _pain_, that you spit it out like a challenge; like a threat; like a benediction against the love you've felt for so long it's a part of you now and you know you'll never be able to dig it out of your veins.

And your friend leaves, and you're alone again with a crowd of uncaring monsters jeering for blood - always more blood - and they deliver, and your underwear - along with the last shreds of your dignity - are stripped from you, but all you can hear echoing in your ears, louder than the insults or the mockery or the laughter, is that vile word, in your own voice. And you try to take it back, later - as soon as you can - but you've done the unforgivable somehow. In one second - in one brief heartbeat of time, where you wavered in your choice between love and vengeance - you chose vengeance, without ever meaning to. And now you're stuck with that choice. Your best friend refuses your apology - your remorse - and walks away, leaving you broken and bleeding in ways you'd never imagined you could be; in ways worse than those boys could ever have done; in ways not even your father had managed. You wonder if this is how your mother felt, when your father turned on her for the magic inside her. She couldn't help that any more than you can help the acid-like bitterness and the seething rage and the burning hatred that grows inside you every day. Poison, fed into your system a little at a time, lacing every dig and prick and barb they shove into you. You wonder what you ever did to deserve this. What was so objectionable about the person you were when you were too young to have decided anything about yourself yet that resulted in the world despising you in such a way? What was so unlovable about you that no one could be incited to spare you the tiniest bit of affection or, barring that, mercy? What was it about you that made your best friend decide you cannot be forgiven for the only mistake you have _ever _made, when you have been fighting against this darkness for so long, solely for their sake? And there are those older boys again, still whispering promises - sweet and dark and tempting - into your ear, telling you about how everything can be _so_ much better, if you'll just go along for the ride...

And you're sick of hurting. You're sick of being _less._ You're sick of being the one who always, _always, ALWAYS_ loses, no matter how hard you try. So fine. Yes, okay. Absolutely. Anything has to better than _this_. Anything has to be better than your father being right about how you're nothing and you'll always _be_ nothing and you'll never amount to anything because you're a worthless freak like your mother. Anything has to be better than hollow, empty promises of a castle full of joy and hope and magic, which turned out to be full of nothing but more pain and more hurt and more hatred than you knew what to do with, all churning away inside of you, twisting every bright and brilliant part of you until it was nothing but blackness and emptiness and a driving need to make someone else - _anyone_ else - feel what you're feeling. Because if you can just feed a little of this feeling into someone else's blood, maybe there won't be so much inside of _you _anymore, and maybe you'll finally have some _peace_. And anything - _anything_ \- has to be better than being looked at like you're nothing but a bit of mud on their boot that they can't WAIT to scrape off; a foul smell offending their delicate senses; a filthy scrap of _nothing_ deserving of contempt and only that. Sure, yes, if they can give you more - if they can give you _better_ \- than yeah, okay, where do you sign? Because this? The way things are now? This sucks. This is horrible and miserable and you _hate_ everything and everyone, and anything has got to be better than this. And you'll do whatever it takes, say whatever they want to hear, give anything they ask of you, if they will just. Make. It. Stop. The pain. The fear. The anguish. If they will make it go away - if they will make it even the slightest bit more bearable - you will give them every bit of yourself that you have left. Just...please. _Make it stop._

And the worst part is, after you've signed on the dotted line - when searing agony has chased itself through your nerves, from your arm to your spine and back again in a loop of pain beyond what you'd ever imagined was possible - and you're one of them...it doesn't fix anything. None of it fixes _anything._ No one likes you better now. No one respects you more. No one want to be your friend, or loves you, or even just cares a little bit. None of what you were promised is handed to you, and they just keep _taking_. And you'd cut the mark off yourself if you could - if you thought it would free you - but this is magic and it runs deeper than skin and you think that even if you cut your own arm off it wouldn't help, because you made your choice and now you're stuck with it. And your best friend is gone, and your tormentor is gone, and your _life_ \- whatever hope you had once had for a better one - is gone so certainly you're not sure you ever really had it to begin with. But you cling, with desperate fingers, through it all, to the one thing no one has managed to take from you - your soul. And in the end, you're asked to forfeit that as well. To give the only thing you've managed to keep unbroken to a cause you never believed in, in the name of a redemption you've wanted since before you ever needed it, because you never truly wanted the things you need redemption _from_.

And through all of it - through all of the years you spend trying to get back to that bright-eyed person you used to be, so full of hope and love and expectation - you keep thinking that if you can just feed enough of the poison inside you to someone else...maybe it'll go away. The whole world shoved it into you, after all, and maybe if you shove back hard enough - if you can just push enough of it into others - you'll finally be free of it. You'll finally be able to let go of the darkness that's been eating away at you for _so_ long. Except that no matter how much vitriol you spit out - no matter how many times you sink your teeth into someone's vulnerable parts, pumping venom into their blood the way it was pumped into yours - it never lessens the poison in your own veins. Nothing makes that go away. Nothing erases it. Nothing eases it. And you can't stop trying - you've forgotten how, if you ever even knew, because this is what you were taught to do; who you were taught to be; what they all made you into. And it's terrible, and you hate yourself because when you look in the mirror it's not your own face you see but theirs. It's your father, spouting cruelty at a child who only wanted love. It's your mother, feeding false hope into a child who craved it voraciously but who would've been much better off with a cold dose of realism. It's those boys from the other House, jeering and sneering that you'll _never_ be good enough, shredding through every dream you ever had of a place where you belonged. It's the older boys in your own House - and their master - promising a revenge you never got but which you paid for anyway. It's your best friend, turning their back on you, telling you that you don't _deserve_ forgiveness, or redemption, or peace, and you _never_ will. You've twisted into them, into _all_ of them, and you hate yourself for it, but you don't know how to be anything else; not anymore. Maybe you never did. Maybe there was never any choice but this one; maybe there was never anything else. Maybe this was your destiny. And despite the doubts, you still love your best friend and you still wish you could go back to being the child you were, when you were loved in return, and in the end you give everything you have left - your soul, and your memories, and your life - in the hopes that it will finally - _finally_ \- be enough to make things right. To earn you the only thing you ever wanted. Maybe now, finally, someone will say you were worth something.

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine all of that...and then tell me how any of the people who contributed to the destruction of Severus Snape are more inherently "heroic" than he is. He wasn't perfect. He was _broken_. Beautifully, wonderfully, perfectly broken. He was broken in ways most people cannot fathom, and his destruction was caused by so many things - so many people - that it's impossible to pin it on any single one. But I cannot help thinking that if his life at Hogwarts hadn't been quite so bleak - if it hadn't echoed the prison of a home he lived his childhood in - he might have turned out so different. He had so much potential, and it was stripped away from him with vicious brutality. You can only kick a dog so many times before it turns feral. Severus wasn't born cruel; he was _made_ that way. I'm not saying he was a hero, but he certainly wasn't the villain of this piece. He was just...a victim. And it is _never_ the victim's fault. I'm just sorry no one ever thought to tell Severus that.
> 
> ~ Sly


End file.
